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  • Writer's pictureJohn Ryan Hrebik

Uninvited Guest

I will stay up one last hour

surrounded by the hiss of dark,

and wait for you to come.

The stiff ground will crackle

with the sounds of twigs snapping

beneath the bulk of your boots.

Your fist will pound,

beating the flesh of my door

unwilling to be ignored.

I will take your coat,

offer no drink and listen

to your echo slapping

the walls of my home.

And when you are through

shaking the bones of your finger

in my stoned face,

“Thank you,” I’ll say, “our supper is through,”

point you to the door,

turn my back like before

and wait for you to come.

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